


A Slip of the Mask

by Tirlaeyn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 02:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12223917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tirlaeyn/pseuds/Tirlaeyn
Summary: Will surprises Hannibal at his office. Things get violent and a little bit shippy.





	A Slip of the Mask

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pragnificent (PragmaticHominid)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PragmaticHominid/gifts).



> Prag asked for a fic in which Will full-on shoulder checks Hannibal based on a scene in Oeuf in which it kinda almost happens. 
> 
> This is not meant as a rewrite of that scene, but is set during that time period, probably somewhere between Oeuf and Coquilles.

Will opens the door from the street and walks into the waiting room, but hesitates at the office door when he hears muted voices on the other side. Of course Dr. Lecter would have another patient in session. This isn't Will's appointment time. He didn't even call ahead. He shouldn't be here, but there's nowhere else he wants to be right now, not even home with his dogs. This case has him wound up so tight he can barely think. Quiet solitude and whiskey can only do so much, and he needs...he needs to talk to Hannibal. 

Half of Will hates how comfortable he has become with Hannibal inside his head. He refuses to look at exactly why he has switched to first name familiarity. It feels good to talk to him, the back and forth, the relief of finally being seen and understood, at least better than anyone else ever has. Will still has plenty of walls up, but he knows Hannibal is methodically breaking them down. And he can't care. Not right now. Not when he's nearly ready to shatter. 

Will paces the waiting room, too restless and wound up to sit. He checks his watch for the tenth time in nine minutes and stares at the door willing it to open. Every time his pacing brings him near it, he halfway reaches for the handle. Finally, he forces himself to sit and wait. 

The door begins to open. Will springs toward it, too eager to get inside to give Hannibal time to step aside and let him in. Pain flares through Will's shoulder as he slams into Hannibal’s chest. Instinctively, Will flings his hands out to catch himself as he falls. But strong arms grab him roughly and the wind is knocked out of him as he is slammed against the wall. Will claws at the arm pressed against his throat and kicks out blindly against his attacker. His boot connects. There's a soft grunt and the arm is gone. Will collapses to the floor, sucking in air, and reaches for his gun. 

“Will?” 

It's Hannibal's voice, full of surprise and confusion in a way that Will has never heard it, but certainly Hannibal's voice. Will opens his eyes, hand still on his gun inside its holster. There on the floor about five feet away from him is Hannibal, looking for all the world like Buster when Will catches him fighting, chastised and guilty. But there's something predatory deep in his eyes that is quickly blinked away and smoothed over as he rises to his feet and offers Will a hand. Will resnaps the holster of his gun and slowly stands, ignoring Hannibal's hand. 

“That's quite a fight response you have there, Doctor.”

“I must apologize, Will. An instinctual reaction to perceived attack, honed while working in the E.R. It can be a chaotic and dangerous place. Will you allow me to check you for injury?”

Will rubs his throat and wonders if it will bruise and how he will explain that to Jack. Because there's no reason to tell anyone about this. Just an innocent misunderstanding. Will runs the scene through his mind from Hannibal's perspective: opening the door expecting an empty waiting room and instead getting hit in the chest by a blur. An instinct to defend himself could hardly be held against him, though there was that glint in his eyes. An aberration, Will decides. He realizes Hannibal is still waiting for an answer. 

“If...if you think it's necessary,” Will finally answers. 

Then Hannibal's hands are on Will's neck, and he finds himself once again unable to breathe but for an entirely different reason. He has never imagined what those hands would feel like on his skin, but now he is hyper focused on the warmth and texture and the way his own skin tingles in the trails left behind by lightly stroking fingers. 

They run down the column of his throat and out over his pulse points and lymph nodes. Will knows his pulse is racing and his pupils are dilated, but he isn't sure if he wants Hannibal to come to the correct conclusion as to why. A hand, heavy and warm, closes around his throat and he is asked to swallow, which he manages. Fingers sweep up and around, cradling his head, thumbs resting just under his ear lobes. 

Hannibal looks into his eyes while saying something about checking for broken blood vessels. Unimportant. Those eyes are what's important, and what Will can see in them. That predatory glint, buried deep, and, nearer to the surface, a growing hunger. Will's tongue darts out to wet his lips. Those eyes flick down, then back up like they've been caught. Hannibal releases him and steps back, mask snapping into place with nearly an audible click. 

“You seem to have survived unscathed. May I suggest a glass of wine to calm the nerves?”

Will blinks and swallows again. It feels a bit like waking up. 

“It's three o’clock in the afternoon. Don't you have more patients coming?”

“Actually I am finished with patients for today. I had other plans for this time, but I feel I owe it to you. Drink?”

Will should leave. Intellectually, he knows this. This whole incident was his fault. If he hadn't shown up unannounced, eager as an untrained puppy, none of this would have happened. Here he is intruding on more of Hannibal's day and interfering with his plans. Staying would likely only compound and prolong the awkwardness. But the stress and worry return as the adrenaline leaves his body, and combined with the strangeness of the moment and the pain spreading through his skull, exhaustion hits Will like a truck. He sinks down into his usual chair. Suddenly a drink of anything alcoholic sounds absolutely perfect.

“Sure, doctor.”


End file.
